What is it? 'Tis Mercy, 'tis Justice, 'tis Truth—
The staff of the aged, the glory of youth;
The rainbow of promise to brighten our tears;
A lamp in death's valley dispersing our fears.
What is it? Thou asketh-thy answer is there
In thy own smiling heart, with its beautiful prayer,
It breathes through all nature—it centres above;
'Tis our own spirit's essence, 'tis Infinite Love.

THE GOSPEL.

ANONYMOUS.

Not in the regal halls

Of power and wealth, the Undefiled was born,
But in the manger of a lowly inn;

Not by the glare of day, the heavenly host

Their anthem sang, but in the solitude

Of solemn night; nor in the gorgeous fane
Which crowned Moriah's mount, but in the fields
Of peaceful Bethlehem. Not upon the ear

Of God's anointed priesthood, fell that strain
Of precious promise to the sons of men,

But of the humble shepherds of the plain.

Thus make the Gospel in the lowliest heart

Its favorite shrine, while to the poor, the meek,

The afflicted, comes its voice to soothe the soul
With its unutterable wealth of love.

LIVE TO DO GOOD.

BETHUNE.

Live to do good; but not with thought to win
From man reward of any kindness done :

Remember Him who died on cross for sin,

The merciful, the meek, rejected One ; When He was slain for crime of doing good, Canst thou expect return of gratitude?

Do good to all; but, while thou servest best,

And at thy greatest cross, nerve thee to bear, When thine own heart with anguish is oppressed, The cruel taunt, the cold averted air,

From lips which thou hast taught in hope to pray, And eyes whose sorrows thou hast wiped away.

Still do thou good; but for His holy sake,

Who died for thine, fixing thy purpose ever, High as His throne, no wrath of man can shake! So shall He own thy generous endeavor, And take thee to His conqueror's glory up, When thou hast shared the Savior's bitter cup.

Do nought but good; for such the noble strife
Of virtue is; 'gainst wrong to venture love,
And for thy foe devote a brother's life,

Content to wait the recompence above;
Brave for the truth, to fiercest insult meek,
In mercy strong, in vengeance only weak.

THE QUESTION FOR CHRISTIANS.

JANE TAYLOR.

The question is not, if our earthly race
Was once enlightened by a flash of grace;

If we sustained a place on Zion's hill,
And called him Lord-but if we did his will.
What, if the strangers sick and captive lie,
Naked and hungry, and we pass them by ?
Or do but some extorted pittance throw,
To save our credit, not to ease their wo!
Or, strangers to the charity whence springs
The liberal heart, devising liberal things,
We, cumbered ever with our own pursuits,
To others leave the labor and the fruits;
Pleading excuses for the crumb we save,
For want of faith to cast it on the wave!
-Shall we go forth with joy to meet our Lord,
Enter his kingdom, reap the full reward?

-Can such his good, his faithful servants be, Blest of thee Father?-Read his word and see!

VISION OF PIETY

PARNELL.

'Twas when the night in silent sable fled,
When cheerful morning sprung with rising red,
When dreams and vapors love to crowd the brain,
And best the vision draws its heavenly scene;
'Twas then, as slumbering on my couch I lay,
A sudden splendor seemed to kindle day,
A breeze came breathing in, a sweet perfume
Blown from eternal gardens, filled the room;
And in a void of blue, that clouds invest,
Appeared a daughter of the realms of rest.
Her head a ring of golden glory wore,

Her honored hand the sacred volume bore,
Her raiment glittering seemed a silver white,
And all her sweet companions sons of light.
Straight as I gazed my fear and wonder grew,
Fear barr'd my voice, and wonders fixed my view:
When lo! a cherub of the shining crowd
That sailed as guardian in her azure cloud,

Fann'd the soft air, and downwards seemed to glide,
And to my lips a living coal applied.

Then while the warmth o'er all my pulses ran,
Diffusing comfort, thus the maid began :—
'Where glorious mansions are prepared above,
The seats of music and the seats of love,
Thence I descend, and Piety my name,

To warm thy bosom with celestial flame,

To teach thee praises mixed with humble prayers, And tune thy soul to sing seraphic airs.

Thine utmost voice advance,
Make the loud strings against thy fingers dance ;
'Tis love that angels praise and men adore,
'Tis love divine that asks it all and more.
Fling back the gates of everblazing day,
Pour floods of liquid light to gild the way:
And all in glory wrapt, through paths untrod,
Pursue the great unseen descent of God;
Hail the meek Virgin, bid the child appear,
The child is God, and call him Jesus here.

He comes, but where to rest? A manger's nigh,
Make the great Being in a manger lie;

Fill the wide sky with angels on the wing,

Make thousands gay, and tens of thousands sing; Let men afflict him, men he came to save,

And still afflict him till he reach the grave
Make him resigned, his loads of sorrow meet
And me, like Mary, weep beneath his feet;
I'll bathe my tresses there, my prayers rehearse,
And glide in flames of love along thy verse.

WORSHIP.

WHITTIER.

"Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this: To visit the Fatherless and Widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world."- JAMES i: 27.

The Pagan Myths through marble lips are spoken
And Ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moan
Round fane and altar overthrown and broken,
O'er tree-grown barrow, and grey ring of stone.

And Faith had martyrs in these old high places,
The Syrian hill-grove and the Druid's wood,
With mother's offering to the Fiend's embraces,
Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood.

Red altars kindling through that night of error,
Smoked with warm blood beneath the cruel eye
Of lawless Power, and sanguinary Terror,

Throned in the circles of the pitiless sky;

Beneath whose baleful shadow, over casting

All heaven above and blighting earth below, The scourge grew red, the lip grew pale with fasting, And man's oblation was his fear and wo!